No, Really, I am

So I do have to check in the local police. Police station - easy enough to find, right? On a Thursday afternoon I check the handy "international student information" book handed out at orientation. Reading the directions, I have an idea where it is, but they're sort of vague at the end ("follow the road around"), and it gives the number, so I call to confirm.

"Garda Immigration." Garda is gaelic for police.

"Hi, I'm an American student visiting here and I know I need to check in with you--"

"Oh, no, don't come today, lad, we'll be closing up soon." I look at my watch: 3:00.

"Um, ok, is tomorrow better? Maybe in the morning?" I ask.

"Well, why dontcha coom on Moonday morn'. Make sure someone's here to greet ye. Ok, then? Cheers."

"Ok, and while I have you--" click. Dial tone.

Oh well. So on Monday morning I set off for the police station having a vague idea where it is. I meant to call again but I didn't think of it until I was off walking. This sort of forgetfulness happens to me a lot. I'm used to it. So I walk up to the roundabout near my apartment complex, follow the road my directions say and start "following the road around." After I pass some car dealerships on the corner, it quickly turns into an industrial area. Warehouses, wholesalers, guy driving a forklift. Each bend in the road I feel like I'm getting further and further away from town and more and more into . . . not the city, per se, but an industrial center. I'm reading every sign but nothing looks like police or garda. Finally I come upon a little coffee shop/breakfast place. I go in and show my booklet's directions to the clerk and ask her if she knows where it is.

Strangely, she throws her hands up. Did I ask an offensive question?, I wonder. Then she starts to explain in an eastern European accent that she's new to the area. One of the interesting things about the European Community is the free movement of people. I learned this in class, so my $ is not wasted here. Anyway she says she doesn't know, but she'll ask the manager to come out and tell me. Excellent, thinks me.

While she's off in the back room, I step inside from the cold, and to allow another patron in the door. As I do, I notice there are tables set up. I poke my head around the corner to see . . . you guessed it . . . cops in donut shops . . . no less than six officers are sitting at a table enjoying their coffee and donuts. Honestly, you can't make this stuff up! Seeing as how Svetlana is taking her time, I politely (no, really!) approach the cops' table and say, "Hi, I'm supposed to turn myself in for a capital crime, not that I'm sure what that means, but as an immigrant, they said I should go to the Garda Immigration Office, do you know where that is?" I point at my book to let them know it's a keen joke on my part.

What happens next is amusing in my book. The grey-haired sergeant gives a big belly laugh, the two officers younger than me with their crew cuts give me the stone face, and the two lady cops lean over to look at my book to help me out. The middle aged guy has no discernable reaction.

The lady cops direct me across two blocks, over to the next strip mall. "Next to Kelley's," are their last directions. So I head out the door, ninety degrees from the road, and find Kelly's Book Bindery, across from which is, as promised, a strip mall. So I look at all the signs: insurance, travel, furniture. No garda station. No immigration sign. So I walk along the strip mall, and notice that there are doorways into the upstairs offices between every 5 or 6 businesses. After going back and forth twice, I notice that one door has, among its half dozen plaques, "immigration." Sonuva! So an hour and a half after setting out to find an office less than a mile from my apartment, I find it.

Opening the door, I find three very American-looking (don't ask) young people sitting in the lobby. They're chatting away, and there's no one attending the very Department-of-Motor-Vehicles-looking-windows. There's one round table with forms on it. I walk up to it and ask, "are you guys waiting to check in with immigration?"

"And then I said holy shit Holly -- oh, yeah, we're waiting for the guy. You're supposed to fill out a form and take a number. He said he was going out for coffee -- so like I said, I said, like, Holly, what the … " You get the idea. I look at my watch: 9:05 am.

I walk over to the number dispenser. It's all out. I start to ask my self-absorbed compatriots if they got a number, but think better of it. I settle into a chair and pull out "A Burnt-Out Case," a novel by Graham Greene that I recommend; it's an easy read and still counts as a classic because of the author. I'll reserve further commentary because there might be a blog entry about it some day.

I'm not a good enough writer to convey how long it felt before the guy got back, so I'll just say this: I looked at my watch when he came in and it said: 10:22 am. He then proceeded to take us one at a time between coffee sips.

One thing I noticed, when it was finally my turn (10:48 am), was a small placard at the window which said, and I am paraphrasing,

"ATTENTION INTERNATIONAL STUDENTS: It is required that you show proof of funds. Please have your statement showing proof of funds in an Irish Bank with not less than €4,800 if you are attending for the year, or €2,400 if you are attending for the semester. This notice is effective 3/15/05."

Now, I had followed the advice of my many sources (see below), and did not establish an Irish bank account, for the following legitimate reasons:

1) The exchange rate for cash or checks is about 3%; for ATM withdrawals it's about 1.5%.

2) Cash and checks can get lost, and traveller's [sic, for the angry grammarian] cheques [ditto] cost money.

So I sidled into the chair having flashbacks to my airport immigration check-in experience. How could I get my money sent over quickest? [sic; I don't always think gramatically correctly] Would they approve me today? What if they didn't, would I be able to pull this off within the one-month time frame, especially seeing as how they don't staff this office when it's inconvenient or when there's a sale at Dunkin' Donuts? I waited for the inevitable question which . . . never came. That's right. I got my legal alien card with nary an enquiry [sic] about my financials. Apparently the sign was bullocks.

Welcome to Ireland.